Well, times have changed. The kittenish vixens of yore, who had diamonds for breakfast and furs for dinner, are long over. Although some old-school gentlemen may still prefer the pretty balloon as arm candy, the modern dog may feel he has to raise his standards.
In the past, successful men married two kinds of women: Meek, finishing-school types (mostly virgins who drank Shirley Temples and who the men cheated on relentlessly) or twitty breasts with heads (who they cheated on their wives with). Successful, self-made men married impoverished aristocrats to gain entry into society. These were what society considered the trophy wife. The truly successful man who, despite having a fleet of European cars, a dozen butlers and vacation homes in every fashionable patch of land in the world, felt that the star to his Christmas tree, the Hope diamond to his tiara, was, of course, the lady of envy in his country-club locker room.
All she had to do was entertain well, dress in Balenciaga, and learn to laugh at jokes that she did not quite understand. She bore children, who later cussed her while high on cocaine, heard the pitter-patter of big feet at 4 a.m. and learned not to question it at all. She had Rodeo Drive, or in our case, Rustan’s, to solve all of her woes. Before Xanax, there was shopping.
Now, times are indeed different. In every unhappy marriage, a woman now needs both Xanax and shopping. Of course, these little pictures of woe are only played by the final vestiges of the T-100 model of the trophy wife. The T -1000 model goes way beyond the mall and deep into the boardroom.
Yes, the bimbo is over. The new Bimbo, with a capital B, is a calculating, cold-blooded killer with a Ph.D. and a Brazilian wax. Templates would be Nigella Lawson (who Charles Saatchi left his wife for) and that chick from the Harvard Business Review (who Jack Welch left his wife for, whom he was married to since the Neolithic era).
Look at this template. These women are not just their regular girl Fridays. They are well-bred, well-educated and gorgeous in that way that goes beyond the scrotum. Remember how Salome drove Nietzsche mad with lust because of her unbelievable looks and knowledge of philosophy? Well, those impossible double B (beauty and brains, not breast cups) girls are back in fashion. Leaving mortals to marry hamsters.
Why the sudden change? I mean, it was fun watching these old, ugly men hook up with unbelievable hotties and know it was all for the money. At least one part of their life was pitiful. Well, as my friend Patrick astutely said, "The ultimate trophy wife is the Penthouse pet with a Ph.D."
I’m not saying that this happy-meal combo is gone. Of course not. Every overpriced watering hole still has this kind of coupling and is still very much alive for our scandale-tamins for the week. But, of course, you’ll hardly see a wedding. With rottweiler kids guarding their interests and leechy first wives making these men regret the day they thought they were meek, a wedding to a breast is, well, only for the brave and lonely.
DOMs are one thing, Forbes trillionaires are another. They realize that as the day clocks in and Happy Hour begins, an affair is just really a useless expenditure. It really does get quite expensive, with all the bags and diamonds and covert Aman trips. And if they do get married, a divorce is even deadlier on the pocket. Look at Trump. Who would have thought his Eastern European model trophy wife would wipe him clean?
Men, the real fight men, these days are looking for a partner, the kind of gal who will understand a good pre-nup and entertain, not only the guys at the office, but prime ministers as well.
It’s a different world up there, and someone who can hold a five-minute conversation about the four Cs of a diamond or the best place to get a manicure is, well, kinda embarrassing. If you wanna be da man, well, you’ve got to be fight enough to sway a chick made of steel. And don’t be fooled by those seemingly fight girls who stayed in Europe for a year to study some random course, like Italian cinema (hey, I was supposed to do that!) and now calls herself some vague entrepreneur. And here’s a tip: Sometimes, she’ll even offer to pay for stuff, but that’s just a ploy. Uh-uh.
To spot the real deal, it’s simple. Well, they’re bigger assholes than you. The real woman these days watches Bloomberg while she paints her nails. She doesn’t care about Louis Vuitton Cherry bags. She wants your stocks, buddy. She is the kind of woman who will make you change your mind over and over again about anything, but her. So where do you find her?
Sorry, guys, she finds you. And if you come across a doe-eyed manipulator such as she, then, man, you have been validated and you can go pat yourself on the back and say you’ve made it, buddy. Take care.